


La beauté est dans la rue.

by spacestationtrustfund



Series: Mai 68 AU [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, dubious claims made about 1960s France that I based off 2018 France, many historical references and a fuckton of research, soyons cruels!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 11:31:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14307732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacestationtrustfund/pseuds/spacestationtrustfund
Summary: Paris is coming alive, crackling like a live wire. The air is burning with tension.-The second part of the long-awaited Mai 68 fic. (Still primarily long-awaited by yours truly.)





	La beauté est dans la rue.

**Author's Note:**

> General caveat: All politics stated in this story are characterisations or bastardisations of historical figures' opinions. All portrayals of actual historical figures is fictionalised. This particular episode features actual protests, as well as everything that goes along with them; there are descriptions of injuries, many inflicted by police. In a poetic way. (The descriptions, not the violence.)

DEUXIEME PARTIE: LA BEAUTE EST DANS LA RUE.

Vendredi, Avril 12, 1968

 

 

Combeferre’s birthday passes quietly. Courfeyrac bakes cupcakes and delivers them still sticky with frosting, having enlisted help from an apparently adept Marius. It’s a quiet affair, really, nothing special. Just the three of them.

Enjolras gives him a copy of _Pourquoi nous ne pouvons pas attendre_ , printed at Feuilly’s atelier, the translation painstaking and personal. He must have worked on the book in the late hours of the night after Combeferre was asleep, Combeferre realises—thinks, no wonder he was always so tired when getting up in the mornings.

He pulls Enjolras to him, settles a hand in between his shoulders, and just stays there for a moment.

“I thought, since you said you wanted to read it,” Enjolras says when he lets go, almost shy, and Combeferre has to hug him again.

The year is one third closer to being over.

And the world keeps moving.

Occurrences in 1968: Martin Luther King, Jr., is dead. The terror in Czechoslovakia continues. Vietnam is being torn apart piece by piece. France is represented by Isabelle Aubret in Eurovision. Feuilly brings in newspapers every day to the printshop where Enjolras now regularly helps, and on the eleventh day of his arriving to find Enjolras already there, working on some new project, he offers him a job.

“I couldn’t ask you to pay me,” Enjolras protests, taking a step forwards, holding up a collection of papers like a flag of surrender although Feuilly knows him well enough now to be certain that Enjolras would never raise any flag of that sort.

“I can’t just let you do my work for no pay,” Feuilly argues right back, and snatches the papers out of Enjolras’s hand.

Enjolras lets go instantly, guiltily, so that they won’t tear.

Feuilly holds them up to the light, examining the design. “ABC, again? This is the beginning, Enjolras. The beginning of a fight that isn’t going to end quick. I’m not going to let you work for no pay—”

“If you really want to do something for me then you can print the posters,” says Enjolras in a rush. “And come to student meetings with us. I—we—you’re valued there, your input is valued.”

“Oh, so I give you credibility?”

“You give us hope,” says Enjolras, and Feuilly has to look away so he doesn’t burn himself on the fire in Enjolras’s voice.

“Fine,” he says. The word sounds hollow, insufficient in comparison to the fierce, determined sincerity emanating from Enjolras. “I’ll print whatever you need, and I’ll go to the meetings, and I’ll fight with you, if or when you’ll have me.”

Enjolras’s smile, when it appears, is just as bright as his voice. “I’m glad,” he says, and presses Feuilly’s hand softly when he takes back the posters.

The next day, when he pushes open the door to find Enjolras tapping away at Combeferre’s typewriter while the machines whir and groan in the background, Feuilly brushes a hand across his shoulder affectionately when he passes by on his way to the back room to get more ink and says, “Come on, then, the work isn’t going to do itself.”

Enjolras looks up then, and his smile is brilliant, like the sun.

 

 

-

 

 

The war in Vietnam drags on. Each new day brings a new headline: dozens dead, hundreds dead, thousands dead. The population of Vietnam must be shrinking, dwindling with every battle, every American bomb.

And the situation in Prague, in Czechoslovakia, continues as well. Students are shot in the open streets. _Le Printemps de Prague_ , they call it, in homage to the People’s Spring. 1848 seems close enough to touch.

The next day, when Feuilly arrives to see through the glass that Enjolras is once again already working, he hesitates outside. Watching through the window, he can see the faint gold of Enjolras’s hair as he moves about the room.

He doesn’t know what makes him do it, but suddenly he’s dropping to his knees outside the building, pulling out the pocketknife he always carries with him.

Feuilly digs the blade into the grout between the bricks of the wall, warmed by the morning sun. Chips away at the stone.

Time feels slow, sluggish in the waxing light of the early morning.

A simple motto: _vivent les peuples_.

Long live the people.

The depths of history: circles, circles. The barricades from 1848 once stood on the same stones that the students now cross. Blood was spilled on these stones. Paris is presently no commune, but in some moments, standing there on sun-warmed bricks, 1848 seems to be barely a breath away.

 

 

-

 

 

Bahorel shows up at the shop later that afternoon, with Prouvaire and Joly in tow. There’s a spray can in his hand, red paint staining his fingers. “Hey, comrades,” he says, waving the canister enticingly. “We’re going to go stir up some shit, fancy joining us? We’re planning to join some girls over by the rue Saint Guillaume.”

“I suppose we could take a break,” Feuilly allows. There’s something hot and tight in his throat; he can feel the constriction on his lungs when he tries to breathe. He doesn’t know why he’s suddenly so angry. He feels incandescent, lit up, burning.

On the wall outside of Sciences Po, Bahorel writes in bold, looping letters: LA POLITIQUE A TOUS.

“Politics for everyone,” he says with relish, letting the arm holding the spray can fall. “Here, comrades, take a turn.”

Feuilly bites his tongue. He feels like his blood is burning.

He steps forwards and snatches up the spray canister.

V I V E N T  L E S  P E U P L E S

Bahorel nods, pleased, and claps him firmly on the back. His hand is a solid weight. “Good,” he says, “good.”

“Bahorel!”

The shout comes from the school, and then there are people, surrounding them. Girls, paint stains on their skirts, some barefoot and carrying their shoes, dirt and chips of brick on their cardigans.

Factory and university dress codes both dictate heels and long skirts and neat, professional hairdos.

The girls have enthusiastically done exactly the precise opposite.

And then there’s Marius, inexplicably, looking out of place in a neat jacket and tie, hair painstakingly combed. He’s leaning against the wall, talking to a girl who’s looking at him with a conflicted expression, clutching her bag to her chest.

One of the girls runs from the wall towards them, laughing with giddy excitement, and throws her arms about Bahorel’s neck. She kisses him, open-mouthed and eager, then pulls away and bounces slightly on her toes. “Well, what are we up to, now? More public property destruction?”

“Oh, this and that,” says Bahorel jovially, sliding one arm about her waist with easy familiarity. She laughs again and shoves at his arm, but doesn’t pull away from his embrace. “You know. Revolution.”

Another girl darts forwards, away from the group; following quick behind her is Joly, whose glasses are slipping even as his grin spreads. “Bossuet’s on his way,” Joly says, and tries to catch the girl’s hand.

She slips away, laughing, and links her arm with the first girl’s, the two of them leaning their heads in close to whisper together.

Feuilly glances over at Enjolras, who’s watching the scene with an expression of mild amusement.

Marius finally makes his way over to them, cheeks flushed. “Hi,” he says, eyes flickering to each of them. “Sorry, I was talking to—” He turns, but the girl has already vanished. “To, ah, someone I know.”

Bahorel ruffles Marius’s hair, ignoring Marius’s squeak of protest. “Mark up the walls, comrade; we’re all in this together.”

Marius looks dubious, hair sticking up crookedly, but he takes the spray can anyway. His hand is only shaking slightly as he writes:

S O Y E Z  R E A L I S T E S

Then Courfeyrac appears out of nowhere, pushing through the small crowd, grabbing the can from Marius, who yelps in surprise at the interruption; a stray burst of paint streaks across the bricks. Courfeyrac just grins and wraps one hand around Marius’s shoulders as he finishes the statement:

E T  D E M A N D E Z  L ’ I M P O S S I B L E.

He steps back, satisfied, and wipes off his messy hands on his trousers. “There,” says Courfeyrac happily, tossing the spray can back to Bahorel, and pressing a brief kiss to Marius’s cheekbone, just under his eye. “Ferre will be here in just a moment, he said we don’t have to wait. Where did all these girls come from?”

“Same place you did, originally,” says the girl who kissed Bahorel, hands on her hips, and the others laugh, even Courfeyrac.

Combeferre and Bossuet arrive next, the latter carrying another spray can. Bossuet kisses the cheeks of both Joly and the girl who had eluded Joly, eliciting smiles from both. Musichetta, she introduces herself as, her dark eyes flashing. She works in the factories, has been pursued by Joly and occasionally Bossuet for years, and is sick of the present conditions.

Women, she says, are treated like less than dirt.

Women, she says, are resilient like stones—if you deign to walk over them, you deign to have them thrown in your face.

Something is going to happen, something more than a dozen or so students spray-painting graffiti on the walls of Sciences Po. Something will come.

 _Ça ira; ça ira_.

Bahorel draws the anarchist symbol in bright, dripping red.

Feuilly stays back, now, with Enjolras, who’s watching them all with that small smile on his face that only appears when he’s in the presence of his friends.

“It’ll come,” Enjolras murmurs, lips barely moving. “It’ll come.”

When Bahorel makes his way through the crowd again, spray canister proffered, Enjolras finally doesn’t hesitate to take it.

He writes a few lines of the song.

 _Nous n’avions plus ni nobles, ni prêtres; ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira!_ _L’égalité partout régnera._

Feuilly watches, still strangely numbed and burning, as they lay the groundwork for the impending battle.

And it is a battle, now—in the light of the incidents happening in Germany, in Poland, in Czechoslovakia, in Vietnam, across the world. The tension can only hold and be held for so long before it breaks. _Long live the people._ And he wonders—how long before the police cover this up as well?

 

 

-

 

 

Rudi Dutschke is the catalyst.

One of the most outspoken students in Germany: shot in the head and chest by a rival turned would-be assassin. The news comes out of nowhere. Dutschke lives, for now. And meanwhile Germany erupts in the stunned numbness of the aftermath.

As soon as the news begins to mention the riots in Germany, France rises to join the fight. The news reports riots in the streets, marches and demonstrations, bricks thrown through windows.

The police come to Nanterre. They are searching, vindictive, cold. They are hunting the rebellion; they seek to stamp it out like a badly tended flame.

The students are lined up like prisoners awaiting a firing squad, hands on their heads, pockets and bags checked for weapons. The police uncover only books, papers.

“You won’t be able to find knives or guns, but you _have_ found words and ideas,” someone shouts.

The streets are vibrating with anticipation of the explosions that will surely follow the making of the virtual bomb.

 

 

 

 

 

Samedi, Avril 27, 1968

 

There are real bombs, as well.

Warfare in 1968: the aftereffects of the atom bomb are still poisoning the eastern side of Asia, seeping into the west of America. The burgeoning sharpness of new technology infiltrates laboratories even as it fills trenches. Chemical warfare, H-bombs, long-distance missiles. Vietnam is a horror show after the slaughter of the Tet Offensive. The Cold War burns with frozen fire.

Everyone needs more. More missiles, more tanks, more bombs. _More_.

The threat of nuclear war hangs, Damoclean, over everything.

Enjolras isn’t in class on Friday evening, and he doesn’t come back to his and Combeferre’s room that night. Combeferre knows he shouldn’t be too worried, knows that Enjolras is more than capable of handling himself on his own, but when Enjolras still hasn’t turned up the next morning, he caves and goes to get Courfeyrac.

Marius lets him in and makes him some tea while Courfeyrac perches on the arm of the couch and blinks sleepily. “Our best friend is missing and you didn’t think to tell me before _now_?” he says, and Combeferre feels a rush of reassurance. Marius makes a wounded noise; Courfeyrac pats his wrist comfortingly.

“Did he go home with anyone?” asks Marius, tentative, and Courfeyrac is so surprised by this that he starts laughing.

“Not _Enjolras_ , no—he wouldn’t, he would never, he’s not, no, not him—oh god, Ferre, what if he _did_?”

It’s not jealousy, precisely, but something hot and nauseating still turns over in Combeferre’s stomach. The thought that he might not know one of his oldest friends as well as he thinks he does, perhaps. “That isn’t like him,” he says. “He would tell us, at least.”

“Do you think he got kidnapped, then? Because I’m really starting to think—”

“Christ,” says Combeferre, and lets his head fall against the wall with a thump. He can’t sit down; he can’t stay still. He doesn’t know what to do. “I suppose we could ask if anyone else has seen him—”

“Oh!” Marius almost drops the mug he’s holding. “I know someone! She could find him, I’m sure of it.”

Combeferre looks up, eyes heavy-lidded.

“Her name’s Eponine, I know her from—I know her and her brother, Gavroche, they live—well—her father helped mine in Vietnam, when he was—oh, it doesn’t matter, but she’s good at finding things, and people. I can ask her if she’ll look for Enjolras.”

Eponine turns out to be an angled slip of a girl, with hollow eyes and high cheekbones. She is, like most of the young Vietnamese girls in the city, too thin and pale, eyes hungry. “I can look,” she says, her voice rough like the surface of a brick not yet worn down by time and the steady pounding of shoes. She glances sideways at Marius, fidgeting slightly with her hair. “I know some people.”

“We can pay,” Combeferre offers, but falters at the look she gives him.

“I don’t want your money,” she says, and pulls at her hair restlessly. Her eyes are dark, thin, wary. “I’m not a servant.”

“I didn’t mean—” he starts, but Eponine ignores him. She looks briefly at Marius one last time, then darts away, down the stairs of the apartment building, ducking into an alley and vanishing from sight.

 

 

-

 

 

Courfeyrac is rubbing his eyes while listening to Marius prattle on about how the government has relented and is promising to reinstate Langlois to his former position, and trying not to let his head droop onto the table, by the time Eponine returns with the news that Enjolras has been arrested.

“ _Why_ ,” Courfeyrac demands, “what did _he_ do? If it was for the graffiti at Sciences Po, why not Bahorel? Why not _me_? He wasn’t even _there_ , why—”

Eponine shrugs one shoulder. “Don’t know,” she mutters, avoiding eye contact as she tugs her threadbare coat tighter over her throat. “Have a friend who works with the _flics_. All I know is, I know someone who knows some _flics_ , and he told me about it. Anyway, I did what you wanted, I’ll go.”

She stops at the tiny kitchen table, the one that wobbles and has to be supported with two of Marius’s old law textbooks under one leg, and snatches a chunk of the bread Marius has been cutting for breakfast. She looks back one last time, then stuffs the bread into her mouth and is gone.

Combeferre frowns after her.

Eponine can’t be more than seventeen. Otherwise thin enough to seem twelve, except for her eyes, which betray her age. Eighteen? Nineteen? Can she vote? Does she care? She must come from the streets of the city itself.

He yawns, loud in the sudden silence. “I’ll—go get him, then, I suppose,” he says, rubbing at his jaw.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you need rest, you look like you stayed up all night waiting, you probably _did_ ,” says Courfeyrac, jumping up. His hair is a riot of untamed curls. “I’ll go. You can sleep on the couch, or in my room. Well—our room, since we’re sharing right now, but—sleep. Get some rest, _please_.”

“Be careful,” says Combeferre, fighting back another yawn. The circles under his eyes must be almost as dark as Eponine’s, he thinks.

“I’ll bring Bahorel,” Courfeyrac reassures him, and laughs, despite everything. The sound echoes—too loud, too bright, for the occasion. Too grating on the ears.

 

 

-

 

 

“Is this a legal thing or a punching thing?” asks Bahorel, sceptical. He leans against the doorway, his hair unbrushed, fuzzy and dark. “Because if it’s a legal thing, I’ll remind you that I’m probably failing all my classes right now, since I haven’t attended a single one in months—I’m trying to see how long it takes before they notice—”

“Baz, who’re you talking to out there?” someone calls from inside the room. Bahorel doesn’t look over his shoulder at the putative origin of the voice, presumably his as-yet-unnamed roommate.

“Just a friend—so is it a punching thing? Because not that I’m not game, but you were there yesterday at Sciences Po, and spending my life in jail would put a wrench in the spokes of the wheel of my and Prouvaire’s grand plan to become a travelling two-man musical.”

“I’ll be your manager,” says Courfeyrac promptly. “It’s hopefully neither a legal nor a punching thing. It’s about Enjolras.”

“The same skinny blond white boy, yeah? Speaking of punching—don’t tell me _he’s_ been pulling his punches.”

Courfeyrac winces. “He has. But the _flics_ haven’t.”

Enjolras has been deliberately not fighting back, deliberately allowing the police to hurt him. He wears the bruises like a banner, a blatant disobedience. The police want them safely out of the equation where no one else can be inspired to follow them to revolt. Enjolras is still breathing, still walking, still fighting in his own ways; he comes home from the police looking like a mess, and everyone _knows_.

The violent, cruel police, attacking an unarmed, unresisting university student. Even the putatively nonpartisan can see which party is the victim in this situation.

It’s unfair, and Enjolras carries the marks to show it.

He keeps his head high throughout.

The tactic would sit better with Courfeyrac if he didn’t have to think constantly about the broken, bruised skin of Enjolras’s face, wrists, throat. The blood that dries on his mouth when he smiles like he knows he’s winning.

Bahorel makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a growl. “Fucking _flics_.”

Courfeyrac frowns at him. “Will you come with me, then?”

“Don’t be stupid,” is Bahorel’s only response, and he grabs his coat from the table.

They don’t get themselves thrown in jail instantly upon entering the building, which is a horribly soothing relief, and Courfeyrac lets out a long, shuddering breath he didn’t realise he was holding.

He has to bite his tongue against the creeping worry that they’ll be recognised from the events at Sciences Po, that names and faces will be finally lined up together.

If it comes to that, at least Enjolras will be released. The _flics_ wouldn’t dare to keep him imprisoned, not now. Even the police are smart enough to know that a full-on revolt would end unfavourably.

All forms of administration seek to defuse.

Inside the building is cold, despite the warmth of the April morning outside. The walls are grey and forbidding.

Enjolras is sitting slumped in a chair, looking furious, his head turned away. He’s still wearing the clothes he wore yesterday; he must have stayed overnight. The _flics_ surrounding him look up when Courfeyrac and Bahorel approach.

They must look a sight, with Bahorel’s hair still uncombed and Courfeyrac’s tie missing and collar buttoned up wrong. Courfeyrac knows what he looks like; normally he feels French enough, but in this moment, with the cold steel eyes of the _flics_ on him, he’s never felt more foreign.

He wants to spit in their faces.

One of the _flics_ starts to move towards them, one hand on his baton, and Courfeyrac wants to be sick.

“Are you responsible for him, boys?”

“He’s responsible for himself, Monsieur,” says Courfeyrac, as lightly as he can make the words sound.

He crosses the room and kneels in front of Enjolras, lifting his chin gently.

There’s an ugly purple bruise marking the line of his jaw, tinged a nauseating yellow at the edges. Courfeyrac forces himself not to flinch; Enjolras isn’t, so he won’t either. “Hey. _Qué li passèt? Qué t’es passat?_ _Ès plan?_ ”

 _“Ça va_ ,” says Enjolras emphatically, glaring at the floor. He doesn’t like to speak patois in front of other people, Courfeyrac knows this. Courfeyrac wouldn’t risk it, were he not so furious. He knows he’s being irrational.

But this is Enjolras who’s bruised and bleeding and humiliated. For Enjolras, he switches back to French.

The symptom of a Parisian education: French alone is permitted.

The Parisian universities might claim not to teach politics, but even language has been politicised.

“He’s already toeing a line, considering that he was previously marked for expulsion from Nanterre,” says one of the _flics_. His knuckles are bruised like Enjolras’s jaw, and Courfeyrac wants to scream. “If he doesn’t stay on the right side of the law, then he’s likely to end up worse off than just being kicked out of school. Take this as a cautionary warning and go home, kid.”

“Keep him out of trouble, Spanish eyes,” one of the others calls, and Courfeyrac has to close his eyes for a moment so he doesn’t do something idiotic like a _punching thing_.

“Fucking goddamn _flics_ ,” Bahorel mutters under his breath, for only Enjolras and Courfeyrac to hear. “Stay on the right, they say, and ignore the left.”

Enjolras simmers, cold tension and steely composure, until they’re outside. Then he crumples, leans against Courfeyrac and Bahorel, the pain shining in his eyes and evident in every tight line of his face.

There’s dried blood on the corner of his mouth. Courfeyrac spits into his sleeve and wipes it away; Enjolras doesn’t protest like he normally would, just closes his eyes when Courfeyrac presses too hard.

“Did they hurt you, because I’d fucking kill them if you asked me to,” says Bahorel, low and sincere and deadly in his promise. Enjolras just shakes his head, lips pressed together, and lets them help him.

 

 

-

 

 

Small things: the photograph of Courfeyrac and Marius with their arms about each other’s shoulders that’s taped to the wall above the bathroom sink. The smooth cold tile of the facilities. The way the soap slides between his fingers.

His face in the mirror: drawn, thin, bloodied. This was never meant to happen, he thinks, then closes his eyes briefly to get his thoughts in order. He almost doesn’t recognise himself.

January seems so long ago.

“Courfeyrac told me what happened,” Combeferre murmurs. He stands behind Enjolras, reaches one hand out cautiously, like he might set it on his shoulder. Stops just short of actual touch. “With the police.”

Enjolras scowls as he sponges at the bruises along his jaw. “What, how I got arrested for putting up an ABC poster in a public space because I wasn’t a _sorbonnard_ , and then I got beat up?”

“What they said about expulsion.”

Ah, Enjolras thinks.

He drops the bloodied rag into the sink and turns. “Look—I was going to tell you, but then they decided not to go through with actually expelling me, so I figured—”

He tells himself he isn’t pleading.

It feels like a plea.

“It didn’t matter.” Combeferre presses his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “I suppose it still doesn’t, but I’m your friend. I know you didn’t mean it that way, but it feels as though you didn’t trust me enough.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“I should know,” Combeferre whispers. He watches as Enjolras daubs at his mouth, wincing. “It’s not your job to tell me everything that’s happening in your life, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt when you keep something like this from me.”

Enjolras sighs. Picks up the cloth again.

“They scheduled a meeting with a disciplinary board for the sixth of May at the Sorbonne, if it’s open. Because Nanterre is still closed. Because we went to the Sorbonne, and apparently they saw that as _recruiting_ people, and they assumed I was the—I don’t want to talk about it. There are more important things going on.”

“The media are still covering the impending Vietnam peace talks,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras shoots him a grateful look for changing the subject. “De Gaulle apparently said in a press conference that the student protests and demonstrations are an embarrassment for France. He said publicly that he doesn’t want to have to arrest anyone else and interrupt education.”

Enjolras scoffs and rinses out the rag until the red water runs clear. “Like any of them give a damn about this beyond the _embarrassment_ it causes for their precious political careers.” He rubs at his eyes, distracted.

“Did they gas you?” Combeferre asks hastily.

Enjolras shakes his head once, quick. “No,” he says quietly, and ducks his head. “No, I’m all right.”

 

 

 

 

 

Mercredi, Mai 1, 1968

 

“I want to organise another march in protest against the actions in Vietnam,” Enjolras announces at the next meeting. The bruises on his jaw have faded somewhat, but the shadow still lingers. “Several _droitiste_ groups, including the Occident, are planning to hold demonstrations at Nanterre on the third; I want to counter those. I think we can get the CGT and even the PCF to stand with us.”

“Wait, shit,” says Courfeyrac, looking up. “The Occident is holding a meeting? They got permission from Grappin to hold a meeting? At Nan _terre_? We are talking about the same group of fascist _droitiste_ assholes, right?”

Enjolras nods, curt. “They were handing out leaflets this morning when I was on my way to visit Professor Castells. Here—” He pulls a crumpled sheet of paper out of his bag. “Definitely the same group.”

EXTERMINATE THE LEFTIST VERMIN, the poster proclaims, and below the words, the symbol that the Occident has been using: a circle with a Celtic cross.

Student political societies at Nanterre: ABC is not the only group. For every _gauchiste_ organisation, there is a _droitiste_ counterpart to oppose them.

Courfeyrac sets his palm on the table and keeps it there, not pushing, just resting his hand against the surface. His expression is, for once, unreadable.

“Well,” he says, decisive. “Shit.”

“All the more reason to demonstrate a show of solidarity. The demonstration would be primarily focused on the needless brutality in Vietnam, to remind everyone—it’s the _Premier mai_ , after all. Such actions don’t have borders the same way some do. The Occident is an offshoot of a much greater pattern. So, by showing overt support of Vietnam and overt opposition to the war, we can—”

“We are in France,” says Bahorel, as though reminding them all. “I get what you’re saying, we should go beat up some fascists, but shouldn’t we at least be focusing on the _French_ part of the revolution while we do it? Since we’re in France, not Vietnam.”

Marius glances up quickly, then back down at the table, mute, but Feuilly speaks up in his stead, tight-lipped. “So? Did you forget the _international_ part? Or are you determined to put France above all else, which is, as I’ll remind you, something groups like the Occident have a penchant for doing.”

“C’est la lutte finale, groupons-nous et demain l’Internationale sera le genre humain,” Bahorel sings, shoving Marius playfully with his shoulder. “Sorry, comrade. _Ont-ils jamais fait autre que dévaliser le travail?_ ”

Marius, Bahorel learns during the actual march, which moves from the Place de la République to the Bastille, lived with his grandfather for so long because his mother is dead and his father is Vietnamese.

Casual reminders of displacement: Marius wears his split nationality in the colour of his skin, the part of his hair, the tilt of his eyes. The way he fastens his collar, ties his shoes. Carries himself. The country in which he lives is at war with the country in which he was born. Everything he does is performative.

“God damn,” says Bahorel, gritting his teeth, knowing any apology will come across as shallow and empty, “Christ, comrade, I didn’t know—”

Marius chokes out a mangled laugh. It’s a new sensation, someone who apologises. He doesn’t know the protocol for such an interaction. He says, chopped and shaky, “I’m half—, how did you _not know_ —”

“I really am sorry,” says Bahorel, emphatic, then raises his voice. “Hey! Comrades! We’re gonna fight for Vietnam! We’re gonna end the war.”

“Yeah,” Marius says, and ducks his head. He doesn’t look out of place—the streets are swollen with students carrying banners and signs and chanting _pas de guerre, pas de Gaulle_ —but his gaze keeps flickering from one side to the other, uncomfortable and unsure. “Yeah, I hope so.”

“So your Maman was French, then?”

Marius nods. French roots that twist out of the ground to pull him down, claim him. His grandfather is determined to erase the other half of him.

“Yeah,” he says again. “My grandfather didn’t want her to marry my father, so they ran off together, and she got killed in Vietnam. Diệm killed a lot of people, including her. So my father and I went back to France, but my grandfather wouldn’t let my father keep me. I didn’t even know my father had survived until recently. He’s still in Vietnam, he—my grandfather told me.”

What Marius doesn’t say is that he has believed this for ten years, believed that his father is alive in a foreign, war-torn country. He doesn’t want to imagine the alternative, which is that his grandfather has been lying to him for the majority of his life.

“Hey, if she was a communist, I can respect that,” Bahorel says, nodding. He lifts his banner higher and shouts again: “Justice for Vietnam! Long live communism! Death to capitalists and fascists and _flics_!”

Courfeyrac, marching on the other side and holding the other pole of the banner, grins at them, all slights forgiven. “You gonna punch Kennedy too, huh?”

“Depends on which one,” says Bahorel obstinately, as prim as he can manage, “Bobby’s not so bad.”

 

 

-

 

 

The CGT and PCF both join the march, as Enjolras had guessed. The CFDT, FGDS, and FEN all refuse to associate with the demonstration, although whether it’s the PCF or the students to which they take offence, they don’t say.

The PCF: the main communist party. The _party_ implies government relations. The _main_ implies remembrance of 1947. The _communist_ implies all the wrong things, given the history of the PCF.

Coalitions. The PCF sets its thumb over the CGT, presses. The communist party gathers the workers and sweeps them into its embrace.

Workers are what the PCF wants. The students are superfluous.

Feuilly shows them a hasty sketch he’s made on the back of one of the signs: EXTERMINATE THE FASCIST VERMIN, with a quick drawing of a rat baring its teeth. On the rat’s back is the Occident symbol, blatant and ugly.

“Christ, you’re brilliant,” says Courfeyrac, and impulsively hugs Feuilly, who returns the embrace with amusement. “If you print these I’m going to take a thousand of them in each hand, and put them up in every room and on every door and board in Nanterre.”

 

 

-

 

 

There’s only one fight, quick and nasty: one of the _droitiste_ students has a penknife in his pocket. There’s a scuffle, and then a student from Beaux-Arts is lying curled on the ground, clutching his cheek with one hand.

When he removes his fingers, there’s a long line of red streaked across his face, staining his palm.

Enjolras steps forwards, swift, and pulls them apart. He shoves the assailant away, lets him be dealt with, then kneels beside the injured student; he touches the student’s check, careful, then looks up and waves an arm for Combeferre.

The students, silent in the moment of action, break into noise. Everyone seems to be talking at once.

Bahorel and another student are holding back the _droitiste_ student, who’s dropped the knife and isn’t struggling. Bahorel swears and wraps an arm across the student’s chest to hold him still. “Fuck. What the hell, comrade? We don’t want this.”

“I didn’t mean to,” the student snaps. “I didn’t mean it.”

Combeferre is kneeling on the ground, trying to help the injured student to his feet. Someone offers a handkerchief; it’s pressed to his cheekbone. Blood soaks the pale silk.

“Christ,” someone whispers, an undercurrent of fear that ripples through the gathered crowd like the shocks from an earthquake.

No one had anticipated the knife.

“Violence will solve nothing,” says Enjolras. The set of his mouth is tight and controlled, but Bahorel knows him well enough to know that he’s furious. “We’re not here to fight amongst ourselves about what should happen in France. The subject of this demonstration is the innocent citizens who are being mercilessly slaughtered in Vietnam. We advocate peace, and we come across as hypocritical.”

Bahorel shakes the student’s shoulder, a little more roughly than strictly necessary. “What were you even fighting about, comrade?”

“Just—he said I didn’t deserve to be at the Sorbonne, that I got in on money and not merit, and—”

“Hell,” says Bahorel, “you probably did, so don’t take it so personally. It’s not worth hurting someone over. If you want to fight, tear down the government. Otherwise, stay the hell away from the people I care about. Now get out of here.”

He releases his grip, pushes.

The _droitiste_ student stumbles forwards, looks about with wide eyes, then takes the advice and starts running.

Bahorel bends down and picks up the dropped penknife. He wipes it off on his trousers and slips it into his pocket.

Combeferre has the other student’s arm draped across his shoulder. “Come on,” he mutters, “we should get this looked at, at the very least, to make sure it isn’t infected. Knife wounds can become irritated quickly.”

No one seems certain of what should follow after that. There’s muttering amongst the crowd, uneasiness. The threat of another fight is palpable. Left and right alike, no one wants the fervour to turn inwards.

Then someone unfurls a solid red flag and holds it high.

The focus shifts, gathers, collects itself again. The crowd moves towards the centre of the city, flags in fists, arms linked, voices strong.

A banner, then: no one knows where the workers come from. CGT, the banner reads. Not PCF.

Some will say that the two are one and the same.

 

 

-

 

 

Feuilly takes the poster design back to the _atelier_ and, true to his word, Courfeyrac pays him for dozens, which he promises to hang up everywhere he can. “You don’t have to pay here,” Feuilly tries to tell him, but Courfeyrac waves him away airily and says that, if Feuilly really wants to do work for no pay, he can help distribute the new posters.

They pin a poster to the door of every student they know for certain has supported the Occident. 

 

 

 

 

 

Jeudi, Mai 2, 1968

 

Enjolras wakes up to Combeferre shaking him vigorously, already dressed, shoving a jacket in his face. “Come on, get up, there’s a fire—”

“What? _Where_?” demands Enjolras, shoving away the sheet and pulling on his jacket as quickly as he can. Combeferre is already moving towards the door, his bag in hand, glasses perched crookedly on his nose. Enjolras jumps up and follows after him, sudden terror pounding in his chest.

“The office of the FGEL, I think, but I don’t know for sure—we don’t know yet if it’s the Occident, but someone said that they were taking credit for it—I don’t know anything else, but why they would want to do something like that is absurd, Grappin would expel them if he knew—”

“Yeah, I thought so too, but he let them hold a meeting on campus—tomorrow, remember?” Enjolras pulls his jacket up to cover his nose, shivering and terrified. “I don’t know what he would do any more.”

There are students streaming from the dormitories, hair tousled and clothes rumpled, many still in pyjamas, others half-dressed, most carrying bags or books or wrapped in blankets, stumbling sleepily out of their rooms. Missoffe is there, shepherding them towards the courtyard, trying futilely to count everyone to see if anyone is still missing.

The students gather in the courtyard, now awake, now loud. The entire residential population has been evacuated from the dormitories. “For safety precautions,” Missoffe says, apologetic, waving his hands at the students; he says nothing about how the fire was allowed to start in the first place.

Fire engines wail their sirens through the early morning air.

Students from the FGEL arrive while the others are still waiting for Grappin to make a statement regarding the damage, and the noise rises: FGEL students smell like smoke, their clothes are slightly singed, and they look and sound furious.

“We’re going to have a meeting tomorrow,” says the leader of the FGEL, angry; his hair is sticking up wildly on one side, and he’s only wearing one shoe and one sock. “The Occident hasn’t said anything, but they left their symbol on the wall—they nearly burned down our offices.”

Everything seems to become a blur after that.

Motion—

Impact; damage. Collision. A list of violations: the fire is the crown jewel. The fire alone could result in the expulsion of the offenders.

Were the rules fair, and everyone knows they are not.

The students spill from the school like a bottleneck. Most of them are half-dressed, if that; they wear coats over pyjamas, unkempt, unexpecting. They look like refugees, like fugitives, like revolutionaries. _Bedraggled_ is the word that comes to mind.

The police arrive, behind the firefighters, batons in hands, helmets affixed to their belts. They look as tired and grumpy as the students themselves.

Grappin announces to the students that courses will be suspended until the damage is repaired, and is booed off the auditorium stage. One of the students throws something at him. The _doyen_ makes the smart decision to leave before things escalate even further.

 _Fearmongering_ is the word Grappin uses to describe the Occident and their supporters. Trying to incite violence, to spread hatred and distrust.

 

 

-

 

 

There’s a pro-Occident poster pinned to the notice board outside the room where the ABC has planned to meet.

Nanterre has its fair share of Gaullists, capitalists, conservatives. Only yesterday, Bahorel had taken great pleasure in tearing down a poster that claimed _situationistes_ were chaotic, anarchist slackers, and shredded the paper with zeal.

Yesterday had been a day overflowing with solidarity and rebellious fervour.

Today—

The placement of the propaganda is deliberate and cruel.

Courfeyrac realises he’s staring blankly at the wall and shakes himself mentally. He can’t panic, not here and not now. He can’t think about the _droitistes_ , the Gaullists, the capitalists, who could be anywhere. They could be watching him react to the poster right now, waiting for him to turn, waiting for him to move.

Breathe.

Nanterre feels impossibly foreign.

 _Terra_ _incognita_. Here, anybody could be anywhere. Watching; waiting.

Anyone could be anywhere. He takes a shuddering breath and shifts slightly, so that he can see over his shoulder.

No one is in the hallway.

Courfeyrac takes another shuddering breath, exhales, and tears the poster off the wall.

 

 

-

 

 

 _I heard contact has been made with workers at the old Gare where they’re putting up the new Tour Montparnasse, that they promised to come help if the_ droitiste _bastards actually decide to attack—_

_I heard Grappin is planning to call in the CRS, the riot police._

_Some students are building trenches, making Molotov cocktails, gathering weapons, did you hear? It’s another Peking._

 

 

-

 

 

Thursday.

Did you hear, did you see? Makeshift weapons, hasty trenches, gathered bricks. Energy seething in the stones of the university. Did you see, did you hear? It’s Thursday, and Grappin is on the television, broadcasting his decision to suspend courses at Nanterre.

Thursday. Prime Minister Georges Pompidou leaves the country that day for a series of official visits to Iran and to Afghanistan. “Good riddance,” Courfeyrac says, when he sees the footage on the television of Pompidou boarding the plane, waving at the crowd.

The news is all across the city: no classes at Nanterre.

The university is closed.

“This isn’t how we wanted it,” says Enjolras. He feels numbed, dulled, worn down. It’s a victory, but it doesn’t feel like one. Pyrrhic at best. It feels like a concession from both sides, a temporary cease-fire.

And yet—

The machine has stopped moving.

A single day: Thursday. The span of twelve hours. Dawn to dusk.

Incidents with students caused the temporary shutdown, the official reports say. The choice of words is measured, deliberate. The reports say nothing about the threats delivered from the _droitistes_ ; they say everything about the purported destruction of property and blatant breaking of rules from the _gauchistes_.

They say nothing of the fire.

The administration uses only the thinnest of sheets to cover its bias. Anyone in the right light can see right through.

 

 

-

 

 

 _Nanterre_ _fermée_ : the doors are locked. The student dormitories remain open, but no one visits them. The administration building is barred. The university has ceased its motion completely, grinding to a halt.

But the Sorbonne opens itself wide to enfold them.

The Sorbonne offers a room to meet. The Sorbonne offers its own students. The Sorbonne offers an angry ear to listen and a fist to raise in solidarity.

Some of the students from the Sorbonne linger when the ABC veers from general student oppression to Nanterre’s particular situation. Bossuet, Joly, Grantaire.

“We should have a demonstration tomorrow,” Bossuet suggests, leaning back in his chair, shaking his head in disbelief. “They can’t just close down your entire university like that, it’s god damn ridiculous—you lot still need to take classes, don’t you, regardless of what the administration thinks? They might be terrible classes, but you should still have to be taking them, right?”

“Classes are overrated,” Grantaire mumbles, sinking down in his own chair until his chin is almost level with the table.

“Transfer to Nanterre and don’t take them, then,” says Joly lightly; Grantaire merely scoffs at him and lights a cigarette.

 _Partialité_ , Courfeyrac thinks, still dizzy. The word sounds strange when he whispers it to himself, lets himself taste the syllables on his tongue. He can’t stop remembering the loud tearing sound made when he ripped the poster from the wall.

He makes himself breathe. Each inhale feels like a knife sliding between his ribs.

There have been incidents at the Sorbonne as well: _droitiste_ student groups have attacked a student union office, scattering papers and upturning tables, tossing chairs and books across the room. Bossuet, the first to re-enter the room after the mêlée, reports that pages were ripped from books and pencils thrown everywhere.

Destruction: the sort of thing that the university reports blame on the victims.

“You’re in good company,” says Bahorel, scowling, “those bastards burned down part of Nanterre.”

“We haven’t _done_ anything,” says Joly, glaring at the floor. “We didn’t even hurt anyone, we just _talked_ —they can’t begrudge us our words—”

But they can, and they do.

Paris is coming alive, crackling like a live wire. The air is burning with tension.

 

 

-

 

 

Gavroche arrives at the Sorbonne before the _flics_ or the officials do, and darts through the crowds of students moving from one class to the next, flinging open doors and dashing through hallways.

He bursts into the room that the students usually use for holding political meetings and yells out, “The flics are here!”

Gavroche is used to living on the streets, on days when his parents forget that they have a son, have any children besides Eponine and Azelma, the two girls. He remembers Eponine teaching him to read and write—none of them have gone to school—and her shaky, awkward letters, spelling out: _The flics are here_.

He knows to run from cops.

The reaction from the students is instantaneous.

“They don’t want us to repeat Nanterre,” someone gasps, and then they’re all on their feet, shoving books and papers and lunches into bags, pulling on coats and hats, grabbing belongings or each other.

Enjolras, the tall blond _nanterrois_ , sets a hand on Gavroche’s shoulder. He doesn’t try to patronise like most adults do; it’s a small relief, he barely looks older than Eponine. “How did the police find out that we were here?”

Gavroche shrugs his hand off. “The chancellor called ’em, _hein_? I dunno anything. They want you all locked up until they reopen the university. Hey—can I have your sandwich, Monsieur Nanterre le rouge?”

This last is directed at another _nanterrois_ , the freckled one with ginger hair, who blinks and hands over a slightly squashed paper bag. Gavroche winks at him and turns back to Enjolras, having decided that he’s the one who should be the leader of the lot. “So—what’re you gonna do, chief?”

“We were within our rights,” says Enjolras, clearly thinking fast. “We had a reasonable amount of people in one room, and we didn’t destroy or damage any property—they shouldn’t be able to arrest us for anything except truancy, and classes are cancelled anyway, the only thing they could use against us is the fact that we were discussing politics, even though it _shouldn’t_ count—”

Gavroche takes a bite of the sandwich and rubs at his nose, thoughtful. “Some revolution it is, hey?”

 

 

-

 

 

As it turns out, the police both can and will arrest the students.

This is the great advantage the students can harness: the police continue to underestimate their unity.

“—completely within our rights, we obeyed every campus policy in the book, you can check the rules and there is _nothing_ about a group of students gathering in an empty classroom to discuss their dissatisfaction with the lack of educational reforms—”

Enjolras isn’t fighting physically against the _flics_ who are pulling him steadily towards the police vans, but he hasn’t stopped protesting verbally since he first stepped out of the Sorbonne.

“—which I’m sure has only increased following this _ridiculous_ breach of policy on the part of the university and the police—the universities are overflowing with students, and yet only the rich upper-class get better dormitories and facilities and materials, because they’re all children of bankers or politicians or—or—”

“Shut your mouth, kid,” one of the _flics_ grumbles, and tugs on Enjolras’s arm so hard he stumbles and cries out involuntarily.

Gavroche grinds his teeth and snatches a rock from the ground, hurling it at the glass window of the police van. The rock misses and sails over the car, and Gavroche yells, “ _Pigs!_ ”

Combeferre—another _nanterrois_ —is already running forwards, grabbing onto Enjolras, speaking in a low and rapid voice, glancing back at the crowd of _sorbonnards_ watching the scene.

The _flics_ turn towards the crowd.

If the students push together, the _flics_ will be outnumbered.

Gavroche scoops up another rock.

This one hits the window, leaving a snowflake of cracks in the glass. One of the students grabs a handful of gravel and tosses it at the _flics_ , who flinch away from the spray of grit.

A beat. A moment of pause.

Then Gavroche whoops and ducks down for another projectile.

Someone else throws a rock, and then someone else, and then suddenly everyone has gravel and pebbles and dirt. The _flics_ flinch under the barrage.

The students gain ground, fortified, encouraged by the way the _flics_ shrink back away from them, avoiding the conflict. They’re far enough away that they have the upper hand, raining down detritus like an army shooting arrows from atop a hill at the assailants attempting to climb.

A line, between the two groups. Like any line, it’s crossed.

The hand shifts, falls.

The _flics_ gather themselves and press back.

Now that the combat is hand-to-hand, the students are no match for the batons and fists of the _flics_. They make a valiant effort, but projectiles are useless at close range.

The fight turns ugly. One of the students is lying stunned on the pavement, blood on the bricks. The _flics_ refuse to give ground, to relent, to stop the assault. They don’t stop, and the students don’t give in. Something has to give.

Another brick. Another, and another. And another.

 

 

 

 

 

Vendredi, Mai 3, 1968

 

There are peaceful protests, and there are _these_.

Peaceful protests are only possible if both sides maintain that peace. Culpability isn’t reserved for a single entity alone.

The students have gathered in the courtyard of the Sorbonne.

Nanterre is still closed, and Sorbonne steps up to take its place. Both Strasbourg and Lille have revolted and joined the fight; there are rumours that students have occupied the buildings and evicted the administration. Universities across the country are rising.

The Quartier Latin: one of the poorest districts, tucked away in the sprawling heart of the city, swarming with musicians, artists, dancers, prostitutes, beggars, children, strays, vagabonds, hippies, pimps, gangsters. The lowlife of the city. The people scurry about, avoiding eye contact.

It is here that the students have centred their revolution.

Sons of bourgeois, the media call them now. Rich kids playing at protests. Bored and looking for trouble.

Courfeyrac has his trousers rolled up, showing his socks.

The district engulfs them. Streets swallow them whole and spit them back up next to dust-filled dingy boutiques and cafés with grimy windows and flickering neon signs. The buildings loom and leer, jagged. Façades look grimly down on the scene spread out below.

Nanterrois, to one side. Sorbonnards, beside them. Beaux-Artistes between them. The universities have joined en masse.

From the café Musain to the Odéon to the Cinémathèque to the Seine itself. The river cleaves Paris in twain.

Someone writes up a list of the arrested students, the injured. The list is pinned to walls, doors, anything. The names are spoken in a murmur that fills the courtyard— _Jean, Chantal, Guillaume, Pierre, Anne-Marie, Charles, Odile, Jocelyne, Alain, Francis, Gilles, Martine, Marc, Jean-Luc_ . . .

A monotony. An anthem. A guttural wail.

It’s going to change. What started as a simple demonstration has become a crushing sprawl of fervent rebellion, shouting and waving flags, marching through the streets and always, always returning to the courtyard in the Sorbonne.

There is nothing so symbolic as a riot.

Symbols are the harbingers of any revolution, that much is in every history textbook—first the spark, then the flame. The world is a powder keg.

History has already written this story.

It starts as a collision.

 

 

-

 

 

“We were within our rights!”

Courfeyrac is shouting, hands cupped to his mouth, standing on his toes atop the stack of shredded rubber tyres that sits next to a heap of wooden crates, both making up the majority of the barricades.

Watching him speak, Bahorel leans back against the wall of the Sorbonne, next to where some of the students have used paste to attach posters to the columns—Marx, Mao, Trotsky, Guevara.

“We were within our rights, and they knew it—we did nothing wrong, it was _they_ who attacked _us_! They arrested us without reason, they beat us without cause, and when we fought back they threatened us even more. We had bricks; they had batons and shields. They had no empathy. They had no light. What we need now is not the violence of the state and the ugliness of the administration, both of whom are determined to crush us, we need— _beauty_! Comrades, the beauty is with us. The beauty is in the streets!”

“The beauty is in the barricades,” someone shouts back, and there’s an answering roar of assent.

“The beauty is in the commune!”

“The beauty is in the riot, in the crowd, in the revolution!”

“The revolution _is_ the beauty,” says Enjolras simply. He’s leaning against the wall as well, hands in the pockets of his coat, watching while Courfeyrac excites the students. “The rebellion is an act of collaboration and camaraderie; what could be more beautiful than unity? There is power in unity.”

They’re still chanting when the _flics_ arrive, a black pool of armoured bodies that unfurls towards the Sorbonne and the students. The _flics_ are dressed to be protected, and they have their weapons ready.

 _Bastards_ , Bahorel thinks bitterly to himself, and wishes for a brick in his hand, the solid heavy weight of it.

“Dismantle the barricades and go home,” one of the _flics_ shouts, voice full of static from the megaphone, gesturing at the crowd. “Protest peacefully and without damages or infractions, or the consequences will be appropriate.”

“Like hell they will!” shouts Courfeyrac, a fervent flame with a voice. “We tried demonstrations, and you ignored us—we tried avoiding damages, and you dismissed us—this is what you _get_! Let Nanterre reopen! Let Sorbonne become a new Nanterre!”

A role reversal: Nanterre, created in the image of the Sorbonne, will lead the way for the Sorbonne to follow.

The nuance is not lost on the students.

And that’s when Bahorel, restless from standing still for too long, grabs one of the paving-stones from the piles scattered about the hasty barricades and hurls it at the nearest parked car.

It’s not a police car, even, just sitting in an inopportune place.

Situational irony. Bahorel always liked to think of himself as a situationist.

The stone smashes into the vehicle and glass goes exploding everywhere, metal creaking under the force, the window bursting in a sudden splintering sound.

Three or maybe four _sorbonnards_ he doesn’t recognise slam their shoulders against the nearest intact car, pushing in unison. They all watch, struck silent together, as it topples, crashes into the vehicle beside it, metal scraping against metal with a horrible scrape and screech, blocking the street.

A barricade.

The police are on one side, and the students are on the other.

_Good._

There’s no stopping them, not after that.

The people rush forwards, piling more materials onto the barricaded streets, the cars sagging and creaking beneath the weight of cobblestones and bricks thrown.

If asked, Bahorel would say that’s when it first became a riot. If asked, he would say that’s when he first decided to go down fighting.

No one asks.

Someone’s fist connects with his head, and then there’s blood in his mouth and his ears are ringing. The shouts and screams of people have faded to a dull roar; the pounding of shoes on stones matches the assault blow for blow.

Bahorel spits out a mouthful of blood and wipes his mouth across the back of his hand. There’s a red streak on his skin, broad and sticky.

 

 

-

 

 

It becomes a series of instantaneous moments.

A camera lens: flicker, shut. Flicker, shut—

Marching in the streets with hastily constructed signs and flags. The Sorbonne, and the UNEF, together. Enjolras in the middle of the crowd, swallowed up by the wide gaping mouth of people, watching as the students march and shout and declaim. The fierce, wild drumbeat pounding in his chest with every step he takes.

The police—a solid block of force, grim and forbidding.

A wall meant to halt them.

They march forwards in the direction of the Sorbonne and the police, who block the road. Enjolras clenches his jaw against the sickening feeling of anticipation as they approach the wall of black-uniformed officers, moving along with the violent jerk of adrenalin that pushes them forwards, caught up in the same wave rolling towards the shore.

 _Pouvoir populaire_ , Enjolras thinks, grim and resolute, and holds up one hand to keep them steady.

An oncoming flood.

The tension peaks, snaps; bursts like a lightbulb exploding.

Click; boom.

The demonstration tears itself apart.

Someone shouts something, shouts _you filthy pigs_ or _we’re within our rights_ or _I can’t feed my children, you god damn bastards_ , and it’s a spark dropped into dry kindling. Branches brittle and raw, carved open, waiting for tinder.

From the first touch. The spark skips, jumps, spreads.

The police have batons, and use them; tear gas and smoke grenades mingle in the air; people are everywhere, the organised march melting into a riotous collision.

Enjolras doesn’t know who starts the first barricade—a torn-up board, sticks, cobblestones, boxes, crates, packages, anything that’s on hand. Anything for shelter, for protection against the smoke and tear gas and fists and batons. He is dragged into the churning _foule_ and emerges with blood and bruises on his scraped knuckles, and goes right back in, words ripped from his throat.

It’s a riot, now; a bloody, brutal fight. A riot—

“ _Pouvoir populaire! Pouvoir populaire!_ ”

The words explode into the air.

Joly runs by, limping from a blow inflicted by a baton striking the vulnerable back of his knee, and screams something that Enjolras can’t understand over the growing roar of the riot filling the street.

Then Bossuet is there as well, grabbing onto Joly’s wrist, getting his arm over his shoulders to help him keep going. There’s a cloth tied over his mouth and nose. “Tear gas,” he chokes out, “ _gaz_ _lacrymo_ ,” and then he and Joly have disappeared together into the obscuring cloud of smoke.

Enjolras holds his breath and pulls his collar up to cover his face, stumbling after them. His eyes burn, and every breath feels like his throat is being rubbed raw. There are bodies lying on the pavement—unconscious or otherwise, he can’t stop to determine.

Someone slams bodily into him, and Enjolras falls.

When he comes back to himself, he can taste blood, sour in his mouth from where he bit his tongue. His palms are scraped bloody.

Enjolras tries to inhale and gets a face full of the tear gas. He tries to cover his mouth with the collar of his shirt again, and gasps at the sharp pain that stings his hands when he tries to touch anything.

There are tiny glittering fragments of glass littering the street, from where bottle bombs have exploded.

Enjolras can’t breathe, can’t look at the glass shards embedded in his skin. He staggers to his feet, tries to keep moving in the direction he thinks Bossuet and Joly went, holds his breath for as long as he can until his head spins and he gives in with a ragged gasp. His lungs feel as full of glass as his hands.

There are screams filtering through the obscuring smoke, terrified and exposed and painfully human.

Someone shouts something familiar— _Nanterre_ , maybe, or maybe not—and Enjolras, eyes burning and throat ragged, thinks: it could be someone I know. He doesn’t know where anyone or anything is.

Then suddenly the air clears just enough for him to suck in a lungful of uncontaminated air, and Enjolras crumples to his knees as he gasps desperate breaths. He cradles his hands to his chest and focuses on breathing. In and out. In, out.

In and _out_. His throat feels like it’s on fire.

Combeferre is there, suddenly, taking hold of Enjolras’s wrists. Enjolras cries out without meaning to make a noise; white-hot pain bursts across his bloodied skin at even the lightest of touches.

“I need to get the glass out,” Combeferre is saying, letting Enjolras rest his forehead against the solidity of his shoulder. Enjolras breathes in, tastes smoke and blood.

Combeferre does something to his hand that makes the pain suddenly agonising, and Enjolras chokes out a sob into his shirt.

“Shh,” Combeferre is saying, nonsensical, and brings one gentle hand up to run across Enjolras’s hair. “Shh, I’m almost finished, I just need—”

Boots on the pavement, someone shouting, and then Combeferre is dragged away from him, and Enjolras turns his head in time to catch a glimpse of him—hair wild and mouth bloodied and face bruised, but eyes still burning. He’s pulled back by the police, not resisting when they shove him against the pavement and cuff his hands tightly behind his back. He lets them pull and jostle him; his eyes are on Enjolras.

Enjolras darts forwards, and someone grabs onto his arms from behind.

“Give it up, kid,” a _flic_ mutters as he roughly adjusts the handcuffs fastening Enjolras’s wrists together.

The metal pinches, cold and tight on his skin, and Enjolras bites back a scream at the pain that shoots through his hands. Glass is still buried in the flesh of his palms.

The _flic_ tugs once, twice, on his wrists to check that the restraints are secure. The handcuffs hold fast.

Enjolras lifts his chin in defiance, tears stinging his eyes, and hisses through his teeth, “We are _not_ backing down.”

 

 

-

 

 

More than a hundred injured: students. Bahorel, Combeferre, Bossuet, Prouvaire, Feuilly. Familiar names, familiar faces.

“Do you think they _intended_ to make it seem racist?” asks Bossuet, wincing as Joly dabs at the gash on his forehead with an antiseptic wipe. Joly himself is leaning heavily against a crutch made of an old broom handle, the end splintered; his knee is bandaged, blood soaking through the cloth.

“Who knows what they intended.” Joly sets down the wipe, lips pursed.

Intention is meaningless. Action leads the charge.

Bossuet groans. “Fuck, that stings.”

The arrested: also students. Enjolras, Combeferre.

 _Partialité_.

The word hangs heavy in the air about them.

Arrests, at this point, are more a formality than a condemnation. An arrest can be easily remedied if it can be proven that someone cares enough to come get you from the lobby of the police den.

This formality can be accelerated if you have an open wallet or loose tongue. Information leads to release. Money leads to more. Names and crimes can be used as currency, to exchange for freedom.

It’s just a formality.

No other formality has resulted in so many bruises.

Courfeyrac sighs and speaks through bloodied and puffy lips. “I’ll get them,” he says thickly, and attempts his usual roguish grin. The expression falls short; there’s still blood on his teeth, his lip. “Try not to get into any more trouble until we get back.”

“Hey, if this keeps up they’ll probably cancel the annual exams,” says Bahorel, whose right eye is swollen so badly he can hardly see. “ _Tant pis pour les examens!_ I’m sure Blondeau won’t miss one more student.”

“A student as reliable as you? No; never,” Joly agrees—it’s evidently common knowledge even at the Sorbonne that Bahorel misses every class that he can.

“Aw yeah, they’d miss me,” says Bahorel, tilting his head so he can look at Joly. “They’d miss all of us—we’re a catch.”

Joly makes an effort to grin back at him. There’s a drying streak of blood smeared across his forehead where he’d wiped his face with his hand.

 

 

-

 

 

Midnight: the arrested students are finally released.

The police offer no apology, no recompense. They loose the prisoners into the streets and close their doors, keep them tightly shut.

“They arrested several hundred demonstrators. All students,” Enjolras says thickly, when he and Combeferre are alone, cleaning themselves up. The cuts on his face have been newly reopened.

“Are we still going to go through with the plan to hold a demonstration on the sixth?” asks Combeferre.

It’s a reasonable question.

It still hurts to ask.

“We can’t back down now,” says Enjolras. He drops his gaze to where his hands, knuckles bruised in shades yellow and purple, palms criss-crossed with a myriad of gashes, are clasped in his lap. “Someone asked me how it’s all going to end, and I—” He bites his lip and doesn’t look up. “I don’t know.”

 

 

 

 

 

Samedi, Mai 4, 1968

 

Nanterre is a locked fortress. The Sorbonne, not to be outdone, follows suit: courses at the Sorbonne are suspended in the aftermath. Enjolras doesn’t look up from the stack of potential papers and leaflets that he and Feuilly have been looking over when Combeferre relays the news.

“The UNEF has called for an unlimited strike,” says Combeferre, and Enjolras hums, distracted by scribbling something on one of their drafts of a call for workers to join the strikes. His hands are freshly bandaged, wrapped in cloth, but he refuses to stop working despite the lingering injuries. “The SNESup has, as well.”

Enjolras’s head snaps up, then. “The— _what_?”

“It’s not just the students,” says Combeferre, meaning the UNEF; “support is growing, even from the professors,” meaning the SNESup. “The television stations are broadcasting coverage in many other countries, not just France.” He leans his elbows on the table, looking directly at Enjolras, who’s looking back at him with fierce determination burning in his eyes. “Ready to go?”

“Right now,” says Enjolras. It’s not just an answer, but a declaration. His voice is rich with excitement. “I’m going to go find Bahorel. He said he’d introduce me to some workers he knows.”

“Oh,” says Combeferre. He doesn’t know if he’s disappointed or not. “Okay. I’ll be here when you get back, then, I guess.”

“You can come, you know,” Enjolras says. He’s still clumsily buttoning up his coat, frustrated; his fingers are still bandaged, awkward. Writing has been slow and painful, but he hasn’t allowed himself to stop, not while there are still things to be done. Even when he finished fastening the buttons, he has a vaguely ruffled air, like he hasn’t quite put himself together all the way. Something is missing.

“I’ll see you when you get back,” says Combeferre, and rolls over on the bed until he’s facing away from Enjolras.

He doesn’t look up again until long after the door has shut.

 

 

-

 

 

Later Enjolras comes home with bruises darkening the skin about his eyes, and Combeferre has the brief, inane feeling that he might as well give up hope that the injuries marking Enjolras’s face will ever heal.

Enjolras spits blood and saliva into the sink like he’s brushing his teeth, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “The Communist Party doesn’t want total reformation, they just want to append their own government position. I think we can safely say that their support will be paltry at best, from now on.”

“Where were you?” asks Combeferre, only slightly bitter. He’s still sitting on his bed, ankles lazily crossed, textbook lying open next to him. A torn piece of a poster is acting as a bookmark: _SOIS JEU_ —, and then it breaks off.

“Sorbonne.”

Enjolras spits into the sink again and comes out of the bathroom, turning on the overhead light. The bulb flickers as he crosses the room and sits down on the bed next to Combeferre, springs squeaking.

Combeferre shifts papers to make room; Enjolras sighs and closes his eyes. “And? What happened?”

“I talked with some of the students. Bossuet, Joly, Grantaire. Joly’s leg is broken; he doesn’t have classes for the next week, at minimum. They want to help, the Sorbonne wants to help—well, most of them, at least.”

Combeferre thinks back to the look on Grantaire’s face when he watched Enjolras. “I can imagine.”

Enjolras sighs again. He slides down until he’s slouching against the footboard, head leaned to one side. He says, “I’m tired of being watched.”

“I know.”

“You know what they say— _sois jeune et tais-toi_? I’m sick of shutting up and passively letting things happen. Everything I do is judged. It’s inherently performative, what we choose to say, to do, to wear . . . where we go, and with whom, and when, and why . . . I know that the personal is political.”

“And the political is personal,” Combeferre adds, letting his head fall back against the wall. He doesn’t ask where the bruises on Enjolras’s face are from. He doesn’t ask, because he doesn’t want to know the answer.

The government wants them to be young, ignorant and happy and obedient. He refrains from saying the obvious, that this is how they want to mark their youth.

“Revolution is performative.” Enjolras makes imaginary quotation marks with his bandaged fingers. There’s a crooked streak of drying blood on the cloth, from where he’d wiped his mouth. “‘Be young and shut up.’”

 

 

-

 

 

Lycée after lycée puts up flags in the windows, forms _ad hoc_ coalitions. The students have joined hands over boundless distance, beyond borders, to fight. They pass paving-stones from hand to hand, _lycée_ to _université_ and back again.

Then the government bans demonstrations—student demonstrations included.

The fist falls.

“That can’t be legal,” says Bossuet worriedly, looking close to pulling out his law textbook and flipping through the index for the relevant regulations, although he must know it’s unlikely that anything relevant would be found. The great shock of the events is that they are truly, wholly unprecedented.

Bahorel looks alarmed. “First politics,” he says, “now demonstrations. What next, our own personal agency? They would have us be sheep. The _flics_ are wolves, and they try to herd us back to our pens, the universities.”

The next day Feuilly brings in a new design for a poster: RETOUR A LA NORMALE, with a caricature of sheep, empty-eyed.

“ _Ne soyez pas des moutons_ ,” says Bahorel, pleased. He ruffles Feuilly’s bright hair.

This is the reality of 1968: the generational divide, the widening gap. The _jeunesse_ , the youth, are tired of being disregarded by older generations. Of being treated like those who don’t know their own minds. Of being treated like idiots. Like children. They demand equality, respect, recognition.

And they are not granted it.

A thousand students, for this next demonstration. A show of bodies. A blatant way to disobey injustice.

It’ll come.

Combeferre walks alongside Enjolras and Courfeyrac, their arms linked, chanting. They don’t bring weapons; they don’t bring signs. All they bring is themselves. It’s obvious why they’re here.

The riot police are, however, armed—helmets and shields, batons and clubs, tear gas and pepper spray. “Calm,” Combeferre mutters, partly to the others and mostly for his own benefit. The tension in the air crackles, sparks.

It doesn’t feel like a group of people, of nothing more than breathing bodies working in unison. It feels like a solid mass of force, moving together. Breaths in tandem. It feels like something greater than people.

 _Ce n’est que le début, continuons la lutte_ , they chant, over and over. _Ce n’est que le début, continuons la lutte. Ce n’est que—_

This is only the beginning.

The fight will continue.

In the first days of the demonstrations, maybe, the police looked like people. Now they look like tanks come to life, dressed in the black riot gear that has until now been reserved for international and domestic warfare. They look like soldiers at war, ready to fight a foreign enemy.

This is how they rationalise it: the students have become the forbidden, dreaded _other_. It’s easier to fear something that isn’t your own. It’s easier to demonise the unnatural. There is cause to attack them, this other.

There are young girls in short skirts and light _chemises_ facing against _flics_ in full bulletproof armour.

Bricks against batons and tear gas.

Fists against the CRS.

And the cameras, following in the trench dug out behind the demonstrators. The media, lapping at their heels, as always eager for the story.

 

 

 

 

 

Dimanche, Mai 5, 1968, Paris

 

The police gather in a dark mass at the Sorbonne. They don’t speak, don’t advance, just stand and wait. Their batons are ready, their fists are tight. One step out of line on the part of the students and the police will have an excuse to attack.

Student demonstrations are forbidden. This has become law. Like any law, it will be broken. The students push, testing the limits. The police wait.

Forbidden: the word is a gasp.

The last gasp of a dying world, it’s called. Melodrama is prevalent, these days.

“Christ,” says Bahorel, resting his closed fist against the brick wall of the Sorbonne, testing, not quite pushing. Enough fists, and they could topple the Sorbonne. “This is forbidden, that is forbidden. What _isn’t_ forbidden? It ought to be forbidden to forbid.”

The students are sitting on the steps of the Sorbonne, or leaning against the columns, or perched on the statues. The titanic statue of Robert de Sorbon is swarmed with students climbing up the stone; the other statues are similarly dotted with dark spots as the students find places to sit or stand.

Courfeyrac has clambered atop the colossal statue of Lavoisier, settling himself in the niche next to the hand that rests beneath Lavoisier’s stone chin, throwing one leg casually over Lavoisier’s mottled stone knee. He leans back, languid, and waves down at Enjolras.

Combeferre tightens his hold on Enjolras’s arm and huffs out a breath that’s a mixture of amusement and fond irritation. Resignation, really; Courfeyrac likes to play with danger, walk the line between the safe and the reckless. It’s a habit Combeferre can’t begrudge, unless he wants to be hypocritical. Enjolras could judge, but he won’t; he has always willingly seen the best in his friends.

The students have amassed at the marble feet of the statues. Great men, heroic men, leaders and scientists and teachers. They sit in stone effigy, immortalised, sightless. The students use them as stepping-stones. A crutch to be able to reach something higher.

Combeferre looks up at Courfeyrac, at Lavoisier looming high above the demonstration scattered below. “I would have preferred to see Condorcet remain in his place,” he admits, a small, private smirk beginning to tug at the corner of his mouth. “The revolution has need of scientists.”

“You wouldn’t know it if all you had to go by was the curriculum taught at the universities,” says Bahorel, leaning into them, tossing one arm over each of their respective shoulders. “Ignorance is bliss, they say. In fewer words.”

“We’re here for the workers, today,” says Enjolras, and lets his arm slip from Combeferre’s elbow. He greets Feuilly, then turns to the newcomers, the watchers. Introduces himself, shakes hands, smiles. He is charming, today.

Feuilly bumps his shoulder with his own. “Are you going to speak?”

“It’s yours today,” says Enjolras, with a small, sincere smile wholly unlike his charmingly facetious one, and steps back graciously.

Feuilly hesitates. He knows, logically, practically, that by _you_ Enjolras means _the workers_. He still hesitates, falters. Questions.

Bahorel hands him a microphone, the cord trailing. “Inspire them, comrade.”

He climbs up onto the block of marble upon which de Sorbon’s foot is resting. The weather is warm, despite the early morning, and there’s a light breeze making the leaves on the trees tremble. It could be any other ordinary May morning.

De Sorbon watches with cold stone eyes as the revolution unfurls.

The illusion shatters as soon as the line of police comes into view, rippling in the waves of light.

The police are the fence surrounding them.

A corral.

 _They would have us be sheep_.

Feuilly lifts the microphone to his mouth and takes a deep breath.

Enjolras, below, looks up, shading his eyes against the glare. He nods reassuringly, or maybe it’s just the heat distorting the image.

“A quarter of workers receive fewer than five hundred francs per month,” he shouts, standing on his toes. Enjolras told him that statistic, one morning, in the print shop.

The crowd is silent, now.

“Some are getting under four hundred,” he continues. “Unemployment is at half a million, and trade union membership is three million _and_ still dropping—it was seven million in forty-five, it’s only been thirteen damn years—unions are losing ground, and companies are pushing back against worker solidarity. They want our labour, our hands, our work, but not our health or safety or lives. We’re not people, we’re just cogs in a machine to them—machines don’t need food to eat, or roofs over their heads, or clothes or shoes or anything. We’re _people_ , but they don’t see that. So we need to show them, we need to make it obvious that we’re more than just pieces of their machine, that we are people with lives and families and needs, and we will _not_ stand back and allow this!”

He can see the dark, solid barrier of police, waiting for him to say something too incendiary, something that could incite violence.

An excuse for his arrest.

Cogs in a machine, Feuilly thinks, and punches the air with his fist. _Solidarity_. He’s tired of not earning enough to eat some days, having to sleep in his coat because the heat doesn’t work in his apartment, running to work rubbing his hands together and shaking with cold all throughout the day.

In short: he’s tired of being treated inhumanely.

He’s a god damn _person_. No more, no less. He deserves better.

What is the difference between a student and a _flic_? Coincidence, and nothing more?

The crowd roars back at him. Fists lift towards the sky.

The line of police ripples, wavers. Moves in closer.

Fear has always been the driving force of de Gaulle’s administration. The government is ruled by his strict Catholic sensibilities, wrapped in fear and manipulation. Fear of what students could do, what workers could do, what the people united can do, what they will do.

Everyone has a cause. Everyone has a banner. De Gaulle’s nightmares are in the process of being realised.

It could be a list of what Gaullism seeks to abolish: educational reforms, government-wide change, gender equality, sexual liberation, political justice, religious freedom. A checklist of sins.

“Marx was Jewish,” says Feuilly into the microphone, “and he was a man, and so am I.”

 

 

-

 

 

Student demonstrations are forbidden. They are added to the list of _forbidden desires_ , along with _liberty_. Freedom has been locked away, restricted, imprisoned. Chained.

Having political opinions at a university is akin to walking into an unmarked minefield. The sociology teacher allows it; the history teacher forbids it. “History is boring without politics,” complains Courfeyrac privately, looking at his textbook with distaste, “just names and numbers, no _spirit_.”

Enjolras had turned in his written manifestos with his head high, ignoring the looks that ranged from curiosity to distaste. Politics weren’t allowed to be spoken at Nanterre, so he had written them instead.

The students fight back in every way they know how.

 _Les étudiants ne sont pas ces trublions irresponsables que la grande presse s’efforce de vous présenter_.

He thinks, now, about what Professor Castells had said upon reading what Enjolras had turned in. Castells had looked steadily at him, one hand resting on a copy of Enjolras’s work. Brown eyes against blue.

He said: be careful.

He said: I know what it’s like to have to politicise yourself at a young age.

He said: you should spend your youth enjoying yourself, not fighting.

“This is what I want to do,” Enjolras had said, rising to leave the room, “and you’re hardly five years older than I am. This is your fight just as much as it is mine.”

The personal is political.

The news trickles through past whispers and rumours: thirteen demonstrators have been convicted and imprisoned, four of whom will serve jail time beyond the formality.

“Two are workers, three are black, and one of them is foreign,” Feuilly says dully, when they’ve all gathered in the café Musain to go over what sort of semblance of a plan might be in order. “All of them are poor. All of them wanted to help, and this is what they got given in return. The police haven’t even released an official statement yet.”

“I’m going to talk to Mme Hucheloup,” says Enjolras. He looks down at his hands, still wrapped in cloth. “I won’t willingly endanger people who can’t afford to risk it. These people have families, friends, people who depend on them and care for them. I won’t let them suffer for this.”

“They want to,” says Feuilly quietly, and Enjolras startles slightly, like he’s forgot that anyone else is in the room. “ _We_ want to. This concerns everyone. Enjolras.”

“I know,” says Enjolras. “I just want people to stay safe.”

Feuilly sets a tentative hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t know what he should do to comfort; Enjolras only shows weakness when he’s in the presence of friends he trusts absolutely. “So do I, believe me.”

“If there’s a _single_ person who can’t afford to risk this,” says Enjolras firmly, “then we let that person leave. The police won’t treat us with mercy if they know there are children waiting at home to be fed. In most instances they won’t even know. They don’t see us as people, they see us as animals to be herded. I won’t let anyone get hurt or imprisoned when there are people who could suffer because of it.”

 

 

-

 

 

Mme Hucheloup is wiping down the counter when Enjolras approaches. “Hello,” he says, and waits until she looks up, eyebrows raised. “My friend told me that your late husband used to run a radio show?”

“That he did,” says Mme Hucheloup, turning away and grabbing a towel. “After his back was bad enough that the doctors wouldn’t let him box or fence—and he was a master at the both of them, mind you—he turned to different ways of teaching the children. There was some politics, too, of course. I suspect that’s the part you really care about.”

“Yes,” Enjolras admits, ducking his head. There’s no sense in stalling, not if Mme Hucheloup is this blunt. “We were thinking that it might help to spread awareness and visibility of the movement, if we could make our voices heard across the country. Everyone listens to the radio, and the ORTF is essentially just government propaganda.”

“This is about the students’ protests, at the universities?”

“I’m from Nanterre, yes. And yes, originally. It’s more than that, though, it’s—”

“Heavens, don’t explain it all to me, save it for the radio,” Mme Hucheloup says. “Don’t waste your fire on me, boy. Well, if you must know, I haven’t been working on the radio since my husband passed. It’s been a decade. If you really want to go through with this idea of yours, you’ll have to talk to the girls. Matelote and Gibelotte. They’re the ones who work in the studios, sometimes.”

“Thank you,” says Enjolras. “I’ll talk to them.”

Mme Hucheloup turns back to face him, holding the towel in one hand. “Boy,” she says, her voice softening somewhat. “I don’t know what you plan to use this for, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. The police speak through the radios every evening. You’re trying to start this too soon—you won’t have much a chance, but I do wish you good luck.”

She nods once, perfunctory, and turns away, a clear dismissal.

 

 

-

 

 

Enjolras is walking back to the table in the corner where the others have gathered when the door swings open, the bell chiming pleasantly, and Marius ducks inside.

He has one hand over his face, covering his left eye, but it’s not enough to hide the blood on his collar, staining his white shirt.

Courfeyrac swears, loud, and is by Marius’s side in an instant. He yanks off his tie and presses it to the wound to staunch the flow of blood; Marius flinches, but doesn’t move away from the ministrations, just stands there numbly.

“Christ,” says Courfeyrac, grabbing Marius’s hand, turning it over to see the blood that’s smeared across his palm. “What happened to you, Pontmercy?”

“I’m fine,” Marius protests, swatting half-heartedly at Courfeyrac’s hands. “I said I’m _fine_ ,” he repeats, when Courfeyrac ignores him.

“Don’t tell me you ran into a wall—”

“A fist or two, actually.” Marius puts on a lopsided grin. “I was with Eponine, and—some guys decided to bother us— _ouch_ , Courfeyrac, that _hurts_.”

“Better than being infected,” Courfeyrac says grimly. “Do you know any of them, because I will go and punch them back for you.”

“I don’t need anyone to fight my battles for me,” says Marius, stubborn, and lifts his bruised chin. “Ponine said they were _droitiste_ , with—I don’t remember the name—one of the student groups—”

“The Occident, probably,” says Courfeyrac. He swears again, bitterly.

Enjolras stands up. He’s luminous like this, practically glowing. Righteous fury. Courfeyrac doesn’t think he could admire him any more than he does like this, indignant and ready to fight until he’s beaten bloody or dragged to prison or shot. It wouldn’t be the first time a student leader was killed for something like this.

Ohnesorg, Dutschke; a long list of similar names. Heroes, martyrs, radical thinkers—whatever labels can be applied.

They might shoot him somewhere in the midst of the fight, Courfeyrac thinks, and realises with sudden clarity that he would follow.

He thinks: we all would, probably. Not just out of friendship or loyalty to Enjolras, but devotion to the cause. The ideal. To be willing to die for something you believe.

It’s happened before. It could happen again.

“Tomorrow,” Enjolras says, and his voice is quiet but it still carries, a clarion call. “Tomorrow, we fight back.”

 

 

 


End file.
